Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard
by Bartimus Crotchety
Summary: Scotland Yard is struggling. They have cases they cannot solve and people are dying as a result...they need help. John Watson is struggling. He lost his best friend, his wife, and his health...he needs a purpose. The criminals have a new force to fear.
1. Chapter 1

I have tried to pass this story off to a more able writer, but it would not let me be. I have a full plate at the moment having just posted a 7000 word epic chapter for an other work, but this character would not let go.

I was watching the 2002 version of Hound of the Baskervilles starring Richard Roxburgh on Youtube and was immensely impressed by the work of Ian Hart as John Watson. The Watson he portrayed was honest, loyal and brave and a bit of an investigator himself. What really set him apart was his concern and empathy for Mrs. Stanford and Henry Baskerville, and his outrage at Sherlock Holmes cold-hearted manipulations of everyone around him. Here was the Doctor Watson I had always envisioned. Capable and strong in his own right, more of a partner than assistant.

If you feel that the skills that John Watson shows in this story are OC, then I have not done my job. I want to show that Watson may not have found the channel of investigation without Sherlock but did not make him any less capable in it. He was an able doctor with a strong stomach and an even stronger will. He was learned, and competent and Holmes relied on him as a colleague not just as a friend/biographer.

Between The Final Problem and Empty House, we know Doctor John Watson lost his beloved Mary, had some health set backs and became a Police Surgeon, and from accounts in EMPT a very good one. This is the story of how that came to be.

I sincerely hope the EXTREMELY amazing authors that frequent this fanfiction will be kind. Their work has challenged me to raise the level of my own.

BTW I don't own Watson and the boys, they belong to whomever is cashing the checks for Doyle these days.

_**Bart **_

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**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard**

**Chapter 1**

Lestrade sat in the warmth and dry of the carriage cab, seated across from Mycroft Holmes. He was staring out into the gray foggy rain so typical for London this time of year.

"I cannot say that I agree that this is a good idea," he remarked, "that man does not look capable of the trip across the graveyard, much less to be employed as a police surgeon."

The man in question was a solitary, solemn gentleman dressed in all black, standing alone among the marble, his hat pulled low, leaning heavily on his cane. Most would think he was well into middle age to gaze upon him, not realizing that he had yet to meet his fortieth year.

"He has lost much," Mycroft agreed with a grunt, "but my dear brother relied upon him, which speaks to his inner strength. Sherlock would not have kept company with someone weak willed."

Lestrade sighed. "Weak willed or no, very few men could withstand the losses he has suffered and maintain sanity. My objection is not to his character, which is beyond all doubt, just to his present suitability."

Mycroft remained silent. Lestrade glanced over and saw the intensity in the man's eyes. Mycroft Holmes was a secretive man, and Lestrade was a man with a natural curiosity, their association was inevitably strained between the two. "I cannot tell you all I know, Lestrade, but my sources are immutable. Doctor John Watson is nearly at his wits end, financially he can use an influx of cash, and personally, he can use a sense of purpose. If something is not attempted to pull him out of his darkness, he may well be lost. I believe this work is a viable solution to both of our difficulties."

Lestrade pursed his lips as he considered the man's words. "We have a full staff of police surgeons, I don't know how I can justify adding one more, especially one that has not established his credentials."

Mycroft leaned forward piercing Lestrade with gray eyes so much like his brother's. "You seemed to be under the mistaken impression that I am leaving you a choice. You know who I am, and have an inkling at the power I can bring to bear if the need arises."

Chief Inspector Giles Lestrade of Scotland Yard was not in position to know all the rotund man across from him was responsible for, but he knew enough to know that he could be ruined as easily as the man could swat a fly. "When you put it in such generous terms, I cannot see a way to refuse. I will however point out that Doctor John Watson's obstinacy is legendary, I can make the offer, but his acceptance is in no wise guaranteed."

His companion smiled; there was no warmth in the expression, and all of the passion of a waxwork. "I would not trust this matter to your meagre diplomacy, I have ascertained a tact that if followed will guarantee his cooperation. My brother spoke often of the man's character, and as such there is one way to be absolutely assured of his participation."

"That is?" Lestrade asked trying for a flat tone, but betraying his eagerness nonetheless.

Mycroft pulled out his watch, and checked it with a look of bother on his face. "Just simply inform him that you need his help, and that his participation is vital to the saving of lives. He would never walk away from such a request, in doing so; he would be violating everything he is."

Lestrade decided it was time for Mycroft to feel the keen edge of dissection. "I cannot help but notice that you appear to have respect for the man in question, and I wonder why you consider this any of your affair."

Mycroft indicated the carriage door. "I believe you have an appointment to keep. Good day, sir."

Lestrade tipped his hat as he departed out into the rainy afternoon. He was not a detective to the degree of Mycroft's younger brother was, but Lestrade could sense a hand moving behind the scenes with Mycroft, some pressure the man was under to do a task he felt odious. Lestrade filed the matter away for another time. He did not anticipate contact with the bulbous bureaucrat to be more than intermediate at the most.

He flipped up his overcoat collar to protect against the day and made his way to the lone figure through the solemn garden of stone.

He had opportunity to observe Watson as he made his way; he was not pleased at the man's condition. He thought the man might be haggard, but as he closed, he saw he had passed on to gaunt. Beyond pale, his face was drawn and pained. Lestrade was debating how to approach a conversation when Watson said conversationally. "How are you, Lestrade, I would have perished long before if I could not detect when I am observed, and how is dear Mycroft?" The thick moustache curled into a sly smile as his hazel eyes met Lestrade's.

_Weak in body, but his mind's still sharp_, Lestrade thought to himself with some manner of satisfaction. "I am well dear doctor; I wish I could say the same for you however. At the moment you are looking peaked, and this weather cannot be good for a man in your condition."

Watson's eyes narrowed and cooled, that old spark of anger flashed in the depths. "And what is my condition, be precise Lestrade, I should like to be informed."

Lestrade saw the danger in the man's demeanour, but he was not going to back away and allow this man's damnable pride protect him all the way into the grave. "You know very well your condition, Watson, you are after all the medico here. If you wish to die, there are less lengthy ways to achieve that end."

Resigned to the conversation, Watson limped over to a bench nearby, and settled into it painfully, propping his cane on his knees. He glanced up to see Lestrade still standing, and indicated the seat beside impatiently. Lestrade had to marvel, as irate at the man was with him, he was still determined to observe the rules of decorum.

Lestrade took the offered seat. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a flask of brandy. He took a sip, and offered it to Watson. Watson waved if off. "So, you have taken upon yourself the role of keeper, is Mycroft growing weary of the position?"

Lestrade had to chuckle at that admission. "You are aware?"

Watson sighed wearily. "Of course we knew, Mary and I used to tease that we were the second most watched couple outside of the Royals. I've always assumed that Holmes must have sworn the man to some sort of vow before we left for Switzerland..." Watson's voice trailed off, the pain still tingeing it after this time.

Watson's eyes closed as he lost himself in his thoughts, so Lestrade took the opportunity to study the man. He marvelled at the lines and the gray that had crept in, the once robust man had become a shadow of the figure that was ever at Sherlock's side.

"Why are you here Lestrade," Watson inquired, "I doubt it is solely to badger me about my habits."

Lestrade leaned back, trying to compose an answer in his head, to come up with the right words to gain Watson's assistance. Watson turned on the bench to give the man his full attention; he actually seemed to be smiling a little. "Bear in mind, Holmes and I could always tell when you were lying or withholding facts."

Lestrade gave him a dangerous look, which only served to amuse the man further. "What are you going on about, now? I am not that easy to read."

Watson chuckled. "On the contrary dear fellow, you have a significant tell."

"Which is?" Lestrade inquired.

"Information I am not at liberty to share at the moment, now as to this earlier matter, please continue," Watson remarked shifting his cane to the other side.

Lestrade was completely baffled. It looked as if Mycroft's suggestions were now made moot by the competence of his company, leaving him with only one avenue.

"Truth it is, then dear Watson."

Watson nodded, nodding for him to continue. He rested his chin on the head of his cane staring off, concentrating on what Lestrade was saying and nothing else, it was so like Sherlock that Lestrade found it unnerving. "Scotland Yard is struggling, we are having severe difficulty closing the complicated cases. The loss of Holmes and his insights has proven to be more of a dearth and even I ever realized."

Watson nodded. "Of course it would be. Go on."

Lestrade sighed, the man was going to make him say it. "We need an edge, John; we need someone who can provide the clues in these matters for us to run down. We are like well bred bloodhounds with no scent. You sat across from the greatest detective I have ever known for close to a decade, surely you picked up something of his methods. He never shared them with anyone else."

Watson turned to Lestrade, he looked thoughtful, which was a good sign. Once the man's mind was made, even Holmes could not dissuade him, but as long as he was still considering there was a chance.

"Why now Lestrade, why have you not come to me before?" he asked pointedly his eyes flashing with anger, "Why are you coming to me now when I have so little left?" **(1)**

Lestrade was not a diplomat, Mycroft was right about that, he was a constable, used to interrogating not being on the receiving end. In times of duress, he resorted to what he knew, and offensive conversation was more to his liking. "I have not come before now, because your damnable pride would not allow you to aid me. You were financially well off, supporting a wife and a growing practice and your health, while not robust, was better than it is right now. My wife and yours were acquaintances and I broached the subject with her in conversation, Mary told me that she thought you aiding us was a good idea but your bullpup came out any time she dared make mention."

Watson winced at his accusation, but Lestrade kept on relentlessly, not for any lack of sympathy but because his skills as an interrogator let him know, he was close to breaking through. "This is not a new idea, Watson, this has been bandied about and considered for many months now since we had a serial murderer who managed to take five lives before we caught him, five women lost to the world and we captured him by mere chance. This cannot continue."

Lestrade let the anguish fill his voice; he had to make the man see reason. "Holmes told me one time, when I lamented that he listened to your unlearned opinion over a trained Scotland Yard investigator, that he believed you have the greatest gift of empathy he had ever known. Others see bodies, you see daughters, sons, parents, friends and family, and you feel for them and those they leave behind. He believed that gift is also a curse, it drove you to be a doctor, but it also devastated your mental health during the war. He said you could see things he could not, because you see narrative threads that would only occur to a writer, coupled with your diagnostic abilities you are always an asset to any investigation. I rather thought he was in awe of you at times."

Watson scoffed. "Now you are exaggerating, I was merely an observer, an assistant to his intellect, a chronicler of his exploits living vicariously though his brilliance."

Lestrade, taking a chance placed a tentative hand on the other man's shoulder. "You said I have a tell, you watched me the entire monologue, so Doctor, did I at any time lie?"

Watson closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, finally he looked up. "You believe everything you say, of that I have no doubt, that does not, however, make your pronouncements true."

Lestrade launched himself off the bench, letting out a pent up bellow of exasperation. He strode a few steps away to calm his temper, and then turned back to his companion to find the man silently laughing so hard his face had become red. "Watson? What is the matter? Are you well?" He inquired feeling deep concern at the man's strange behaviour. Watson pulled out a handkerchief and dabbled at his eyes, he finally caught his breath. "I'm so sorry, dear Lestrade, you must not think ill of me, but the last time I saw you that angry was in discussion with Holmes." Lestrade realized the man was correct and he let out a bark of laughter as well, not very suited to their surroundings but it was such a cleansing catharsis that Lestrade felt he did not care. He finally got his composure back enough to say, "If nothing else comes from this conversation, I will always consider it worth it for that moment."

Watson nodded; he had more colour to his face than Lestrade had seen all afternoon. "I have not been able to remember Holmes with anything but sorrow until now. It's quite possible that annoying you is a balm for me."

Lestrade gave him a short bow and a wry smile. "Glad to be of service."

Watson nodded with the lopsided grin that Lestrade would have never thought possible ever again. The man leaned heavily on his cane, pulling himself painfully to his feet and pausing to let the vertigo pass. Lestrade kept a distance wary of Watson's pride and self-reliance. Finally, Watson straightened up and began his walk to the gates with Lestrade two step behind. "I have three hours this afternoon, before pressing business takes me away from you. That is enough time to review one case, if I come upon revelations that your surgeon did not, and my observations prove useful, then and only then will I consider discussing your offer."

Lestrade nodded, trying not to show his eagerness. All of his discussions and defences of Watson's abilities based on Holmes' perceptions of the man, if all went well he would see those attributes for himself, he found that an exciting prospect. "What, may I ask, changed your mind John?" He asked as they arrived at the street, knowing he was jeopardizing the infant agreement by poking at it.

Watson just gave him an enigmatic smile and raised his cane to signal for a cab.

* * *

**Story Notes: **This story is dedicated to Elizabeth my constant fan and reader. KCS and Shedoc who have caused me to fall in love with SH/JW all over again. I do hope they will be tolerant of my efforts.

**(1)** Check out the corresponding picture in my profile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Notes:** I have a real monster bunny here, he wont let me go so I am going to ride him on out. This means I will be updating rather frequently. Very rarely do I find a story idea this good and a protagonist this awesome, it is ironic this particular man has been around in literature for quite some time! My best writing comes from these bursts of creativity. I hope I can do a good job.

Incidentally Ian Hart also played Watson in "The Case of the Silk Stockings" with Rupert Everett as Holmes. He was also brilliant in that one. The same writers were used so it was the same manipulative secretive drug addled Holmes as in the Hound version though a different actor. I still enjoyed every moment when Ian was on the screen. There was this one scene where he was writing Holmes a prescription for breakfast. I laughed out loud.

I know that Watson has a long speech in this one, it is is vaguely Holmesian which might get me in trouble. I personally feel that the context makes his actions all his though. I hope you all agree.

**WARNING!** This is an autopsy, as such it is not going to be pleasant. I did my best to not be graphic but there's only so much I can sanitize without the story suffering. So enter the tiled room at your own risk.

I do not own these characters...that was some dude named Doyle.

**Bart**

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**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard**

**Chapter Two **

Watson was quiet all the way to Scotland Yard, Lestrade felt nervous about the man's sudden change of heart so he was careful not to draw him out on the matter.

Once they departed the hansom, and after Watson insisted on paying, Lestrade had to pause as his companion, leaning heavily on his cane stopped in front of the gates, and glanced at the dark building with something akin to trepidation, his medical bag they had stopped for at his practice held in one white knuckled hand.

"Are you well Watson?" Lestrade inquired. Watson gave him a glance full of indignation as an answer, and then he followed the Chief Inspector inside.

As they made their way through the warren of corridors, Lestrade slowed his usual pace just enough to allow Watson to keep up but not enough to be obvious. He was beginning to understand the delicate balancing act of practicality and subtlety needed to stay abreast of Watson's colossal pride. The man had little in the way of physicality to offer, his finances were not at present in good states, all he had left was that tremendous dignity in which he conducted himself with what little self-sufficiency was left him.

Here and there, constables and detectives recognized the visitor and made some manner of greeting. Watson returned their greetings with equanimity and warmth, Lestrade was beginning to worry that the man would tire out by the time they reached the dissection bays.

They came to the offices in the innermost chambers in the bowels of the Yard. As they entered, Inspector Tobias Gregson seated at a desk in the corner of the pristine room stared at John as if he had seen a ghost; Lestrade hoped the normally blunt and uncouth man would have the sudden influx of decency not to remark upon Watson's dramatic appearance. The big blond Swede to his credit leapt to his feet, swallowed all pronouncements and made a go of it. "Doctor John Watson, so nice to see you out and about, come down here to show us how it's done, have you?"

John showed a bit of colour in his cheek from mild embarrassment, "Oh no, I'm here strictly as a consultant, no more." Gregson shot Lestrade a disappointed look, revealing that he had been hoping for Watson's permanence.

Lestrade shrugged with some subtlety, then proceeded with business, before the silence could become too uncomfortable, or before Bradstreet or Hopkins could arrive and make a spectacle. Lestrade walked over to see the board to check the charts for bodies currently in the course of processing in the bays.

Before he could give Watson a choice of cadavers, a loud voice rang out. "Cor! Look Stanley, its Doctor Watson as I live and breathe!" said the bearded giant Bradstreet as they entered.

His shorter young partner, Hopkins immediately looked as if he was going to launch into some indiscreet questions as to Watson's health. Lestrade gave him a hard glare to head off the interrogation, but he was too late.

"Are you quite alright Doctor? I swear you've lost at least a stone since I saw you at the funeral for your missus."

The room went quiet, most were appalled that someone would speak so bluntly, and others that he would point out a man's condition in such a cavalier manner, especially one with the decorum of Doctor John Watson. To their surprise, Watson accepted the intrusive query in the spirit it was intended. "I am fine, dear Stanley, no need to be concerned, she would have been grateful you attended by the way, I don't believe I said so at the time." Hopkins waved him off. "Oh that's alright Doctor, you weren't in any condition." He nodded toward one of the autopsy bays. "So you here to give us your opinion on the puzzle-man?"

Lestrade tensed, the case in question was the last he wanted the doctor to see on his first day.

Watson turned to Lestrade. "The puzzle-man?" he asked his moustache not quite covering a wry smile of amusement.

Lestrade tried to redirect him. "That was not the case I wanted you to take a look at, Doctor. St. Cloud's already completed the post-mortem and declared. There's really not much left to do with that one."

Bradstreet showed his usual obliviousness. "I don' know about that, Inspector, Wilkins, our newest doc, lost his breakfast at first glance. S'really not much to go on. I doubt St. Cloud's really looking that 'ard."

Watson smiled. "Then that's the case for me, see if you can arrange it, Inspector."

Lestrade foolishly tried to dissuade him. "I don't want you to get overwhelmed on your first day, Doctor..."

Watson cut him off with a cold glare so frigid Lestrade thought he might have frostbite later. "We are here to test my viability as a police surgeon, if I cannot deal with the worst you have to set before me, then I should not be placed in this position," Watson informed in an even calm tone that belied the anger in his eyes.

Lestrade peeked warily at the bay in question, before he glanced at Gregson, who he knew had been present when the body came in that morning and was the investigating officer of note. Gregson gave him the nod, but the man had the sense to look dubious about Watson's suitability.

Lestrade walked over and tapped on the door. A large bushy gray-haired man with simian arms and delicate hands answered accompanied by the smell of wet death, he looked deeply irritated. "What iz it? I am finishing now, you'll get your report soon enough." He grumbled in a deep French accented voice.

His calm slate grey eyes settled upon Watson and they narrowed. "Is zis ze author of those overwrought dime novels that you've been telling us about?" He said nodding dismissively in Watson's direction as he wiped his hands on a fluid sodden towel.

Three officers started to say something indignant but a hand from Watson stopped them. "I am indeed a published author, but I am also a doctor, they brought me in for a consultation that is all. I am not here to replace or supplant you sir," he said with a warm smile. **(2)**

Watson pulled off his black gloves, tucked them under his arm with his cane and offered his hand. The man cautiously grasped it, testing the grip. "I am Georges St. Cloud; I am the doctor of note on zis case" Watson nodded. "I am Doctor John Watson, thank you for letting me take a look at your cadaver."

Georges, who was notoriously territorial nodded and stepped aside to allow entrance. "Menthol for ze smell?" he inquired with a smirk, observably taking note of the visitor's pallor with some satisfaction. Watson shook his head, "Thank you for the offer, sir, but I must decline, I don't want to miss an odour." He entered the room not noticing the obvious way St. Cloud rolled his eyes at that statement.

Lestrade and Gregson took the menthol and smeared it under their noses wincing at the fumes Lestrade's eyes always watered for hours after he used the stuff.

The small tiled room had a metal table in the centre, the naked body upon it was nearly unrecognizable as human. "Now, what happened to you, old chap?" Watson asked the body in an inquisitive tone. St. Cloud shot a glance at the two Inspectors, and then replied. "He was fished out of ze Thames zis morning after he got caught up in starboard propeller of a passing steam ship just below Wapping. I've already given my findings, they are on that desk over there. If nothing else you require, I'll be back."

Watson glanced up and nodded absently as the man left with a huff of disgust.

Watson removed his jacket and placed his gloves atop it with his hat and cane. He then expertly rolled up his cuffs to his elbow and slipped on a thick green coroner's apron eschewing the gloves, leaving his hands bare. He placed his bag on a small table beside the body, removing his pristine tools onto a white cloth, in a careful meticulous ritual.

He then noticed Lestrade and Gregson still standing there. "If you want gentlemen, I can do this alone, I'll have my own findings in a half an hour as most of the preliminaries are complete." Lestrade exchanged a look with Gregson. "If you don't mind a bit of an audience I'd like to watch you work Doctor," He replied. Watson nodded motioning to two chairs at the desk in the corner. They went over and settled in to watch.

It was an autopsy conducted in a most unique manner, the oddest Lestrade had viewed.

Watson bent to his work; he would talk to the body as if it was a friend. Saying things like, "Excuse me dear boy, I need to open this up a bit more," or he would remark, "Ah, you have had a hard go of it recently have you not?" He made an intense study of what was left of the hands, and mouth, then he saw something just below the jaw. He picked up a bowl and mixed a white powder with water , reaching into the gaping neck wound, spreading it with one hand he placed in something that looked like gray putty on a dowel, after a few minutes he removed a cast he had made, placing it to the side. He then scented certain things on the body, including something in the chest cavity, but other than going pale a couple of times in a manner that suggested nausea he appeared unaffected by the stench.

He wiped his hands, and then went over the personal affects, using a magnifier fastened to the dissection table; he was especially interested in the shoes, and the contents of the pockets. He stood back looking exhausted at one point leaning against the tile wall, wearily staring at the body, his hand stroking his moustache and chin, his forehead wrinkled deep in thought. He then reached between Lestrade and Gregson with a murmured apology, picked up St. Cloud's preliminary autopsy report took it to the body and reviewed it, frowning at several things.

His jaw became rigid in anger.

St. Cloud came back into the room a few minutes later; Hopkins and Bradstreet followed him inside, causing the small room to become claustrophobic. Lestrade could tell from their faces they refused to be dissuaded from hearing the findings.

Watson replaced the report on the desktop. He turned to Lestrade. "I have a few observations, but I will give them to you and Gregson in private, if you will."

He began to pack up his tools. St. Cloud was fuming; but remained silent; the other Inspectors looked disappointed there would not be a confrontation. Lestrade was willing to wager that there was a hope among the force that Doctor Watson would release his famed bullpup on the officious Frenchman. Lestrade knew Watson as too much the gentlemen to offer a dissenting opinion about another's work in the presence of that person's peers. He further knew that St. Cloud would take it as a sign of incompetence and fear, though. Lestrade silently hoped, for Watson's sake, the big police surgeon would let him leave with no protest. He did not know if Watson was up to the war of words it would take to back the other man down.

Watson collected his coat and gloves picking up his cane when St. Cloud made his biggest mistake of that day. "Are you saving your results for another vulgar little romantic pamphlet, I'm sure you have not had much to write lately since your dubious protagonist went over the falls."

Watson's back was to the room, but the tension in his shoulders showed the effect of the other man's words. St. Cloud still had no idea of what he had unleashed upon himself, he was smiling smugly satisfied he had hit home. He did not notice that Bradstreet and Hopkins had edged away to stand with Lestrade and Gregson out of the line of fire. Lestrade murmured to Hopkins, who was the best note taker. "You wanted an autopsy; you are about to see someone dissected, make sure you get the details." Hopkins fished out his pad and produced the pencil he had over his ear.

Just in time, as Watson replaced his coat, gloves and hat where they had lain. With his back still turned, he rolled up his sleeves once again.

Watson turned and his face was pale, empty and blank his hazel eyes looked more hollow than they had before. The man was beyond anger, into a realm of fury where no emotion was expressible, just on the edge of physical violence, which in spite of his condition, he was still very capable of meting out.

"You asked for my findings. Very well, here they are."

He reached over and raised one of the damaged hands. "That dubious protagonist you mentioned showed me a trick for determining vocation of deceased persons. He raised it to St. Cloud. "Calluses on the thumb and forefinger indicate someone who shuffles a lot of paper, bankers, accountants and the like. Calluses on the fingers and across the palm indicate someone who holds reigns such as a cabbie or equestrians. Calluses cross the knuckles and scar tissue indicate a fighter, or a brute, even martial artists, anyone who uses their fist for weapons." He turned the hand back over. "If this man was a vagrant, as you have supposed, you would find oil and dirt ground into the meat of his palm where he made a lot of contact with the ground, no amount of water would extract it, this man's hands remain pristine which is a dead on indicator that he is of the upper class." He held up the man's fingers to St. Cloud's line of sight his eyes cold and merciless. "I may have been away from the streets for a while, Doctor St. Cloud, but when last I looked, vagrants did not see manicures as a priority, this man did, as you can see from the perfect cuticles."

St Cloud began to squirm under the other man's scrutiny, as Watson ploughed on relentlessly.

"You can also tell from the cut of his clothing that he was not a vagrant, just someone who did not take care of his clothing properly. His shoes are high quality leather and created to order; you can see that by the cobbler mark in the heel, something only the most elite shoemakers do. Yet another tip I picked up from my dubious protagonist."

He walked over to the personal effects. "You have placed this man as having entered the water just above Wapping. However, he has Chinese laundry marks on his clothes, and a Mah-jong tile in his pocket, his fingers are stained yellow from possibly an Opium pipe, and his lungs reek of Poppy, a scent that lingers and is unmistakable; if you have ever been in the Orient, you would know it. All of these clues lead me to conclude that this man arrived in the Thames up river in the Limehouse district, where Opium and Mah-jong parlours trap the unwary."

Watson speared St. Cloud with a cold stare. "All of these clues are mere observations of a trained detective, mere trifles of a profession that is not your own. I can excuse your ignorance of such trivial clues as not being medical knowledge. However my last point is inexcusable." He pointed to the tears and slices that circumnavigated the body on the slab. "These cuts are all angled counter clockwise because that is how the blade was turning when the body was chewed up in the cavitation of the propeller, but not this cut here." He pointed to a deeper cut under the jaw, bisected by the others. "This cut is older and deeper so it occurred pre-mortem, it explains the blood I found in the lungs and stomach. When someone is partially decapitated, the blood that is produced flows down those channels. I made a cast of the blade impression in his spinal column." He held up the cast he made. "This blade shape reminds me of a Calvary sabre, the amount of pressure that it would have taken to score the vertebra to this extent indicates a man charging on horseback." He pointed to what was left of the cadaver's mouth. "Most of the teeth were knocked out by the propeller, but one of his front teeth was extracted, the root is missing. If this gentleman had a gold front tooth, another affectation of the upper class by the way, then if someone killed this man for someone else, that tooth would make a adequate trophy would it not?"

Watson began to roll his sleeves back down as he continued, "Since I am a mere author, if I were to tell this unfortunate man's story. I would say that there was a member of the upper class who liked his wine and food, indicated by his overweight condition and cirrhoses of the liver, who was captured by the lure of Opium and gambling, was dissipating between the two, throwing away what fortune he had. Someone wanted to prevent him from doing so. That someone had an ex-Calvary officer to go down to Limehouse under the guise of bringing this gentleman more money to pay his mounting debts, that person killed him, extracted his tooth to show that he had accomplished his mission, and dumped the body in the Thames. He most likely thought that the man in question would be marked down as just another victim of rising waterfront crime."

He finished with his cuffs, put on his coat, and pulled on his gloves while he spoke. "All of what I have showed you are mere items of speculation, mind you, but what is not speculation is the fact I read in the gossips two days ago about a missing nobleman, his wife is distraught and worried because he has not been in the safest parts of town as of late. There is a further article that the woman in question has been seen squired around Piccadilly by an ex-Calvary officer by the name of DeBeers. I have no conversation at the breakfast table these days so I make do with Times and Mirror.

I have only two more things to add."

He turned to the inspectors. "This man was not a puzzle alive, he was a human being, and I should like to request that that you remember that fact."

He turned to the mortified Doctor St. Cloud. "That dubious protagonist you mentioned was the greatest man I have ever known. He was my dearest and best friend. You have no right to disparage him sir."

With his hat on his head, cane in one hand, bag in his other hand Watson closed in on the taller man. The look of cold violent potential in those hazel eyes made St. Cloud back up a step. "If I ever hear you defame Sherlock Holmes in my presence, or it reaches my ears that you made statements to that affect to someone else, we will have a talk, sir. It will not be a conversation from which you emerge unscathed; you have my word as a gentleman."

He crossed to the door turning back at the last moment. "Lestrade?"

"Yes, Doctor?" Lestrade replied, shaken from his absorption, hoping Hopkins caught all that information.

"Was that enough to catch the scent?" Watson inquired with a tired smile.

Lestrade smiled and nodded. "More than enough, Doctor."

Watson tapped his hat with his cane. "Then...release the hounds, and good luck."

With that last pronouncement, he was gone.

They all stood in silence for a few moments, then Gregson stood. "We all have work to do. Lestrade if you will assist me I would be ever so grateful." He turned to the stunned, pale Frenchman. "Doctor? I think you have a preliminary to re-write." The normally gregarious man could only nod.

Lestrade nodded to Bradstreet and Hopkins. "Well boys, Talley ho!"

* * *

**Story Notes:** I was extremely gratified by the reception I have gotten so far. I am getting compliments from persons I consider Watson experts. I have to admit, having this dear chap in my head has been a pleasure, he is ever so polite. I think this chapter shows that when the mild mannered verteran is turned loose on the unwary, its both a glorious and scary sight! Thanks for reading and reviewing!

**(2)** For the corresponding picture check the profile!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Notes:** And the bunny keeps on hopping! I did not see this chapter coming, or the insights that came from it. I hope it is in keeping with the other two. Thank you for all the generous reviews! I still see Ian Hart in my head when I write this...if you have not seen 2002 version of The Hound of the Baskervilles...stop and go see its on Youtube! I especially like it because Watson winds up saving Sherlock's sorry behind, even though he did not deserve it at that moment! LOL!

Clea Lestrade belongs to Argonite and her brilliant fics. Be sure to go check them out....as well as KCS...and Shedoc! If you do that will, however, not place me in the best of lights...but oh well LOL!

Once again these are Arthur's kids...I don't own'em

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard**

**Chapter Three**

Lestrade walked through Scotland Yard with a light step. He was whistling to himself some tune that he and his wife Clea had listened to at a public concert the week before.

He was in a better mood than he had been in for some time.

Watson's little demonstration two days ago had become nearly legendary already. Most who had despised St. Cloud, and to be sure, that was most of the Yard by now, were singing the praises of the doctor. It did not help that Hopkins had somehow managed to recreate the monologue almost word for word. That account spread as it passed around under the guise of sharing information, but Lestrade had inkling that it found more use for entertainment purposes.

St. Cloud had said no words to Lestrade since his efficient, militaristic dressing down. He had meekly turned in the modified coroners finding,and had been unusually accommodating since. Lestrade was still waiting for the resulting controversy to arrive. He knew St. Cloud as Chief Police Surgeon, had connections further up in Scotland Yard hierarchy, which is why the man could be so rude with impunity, and he knew the French man would not take his humiliation well.

He was crossing the receiving area when the Superintendant's door opened. "Chief Inspector, might I have a word?"

_The wait is over._

"Of course, Superintendant Collins," Lestrade replied dutifully, as if he could refuse.

He entered the neat office and took his seat across from the tall fastidious man. Collins had the look of aristocracy, even though he was as common born as Lestrade. The man was also very well educated and understood that he was a political functionary and left the true work to men under him while deflecting and dispersing any undue attentions. Lestrade and his fellow inspectors quite liked the man; of course, they still did not like a call into his presence.

Collins did not settled into his desk, but instead he studied the activity out on the floor in silence. Lestrade took that as a bad omen for things to come.

Collins finally turned to the Chief Inspector. "I have been privy to many things occurring within these walls, things I let pass for the sake of moral, and our mutual goals. However, I have been placed in an unenviable position by this week's activities."

Lestrade nodded.

Collins pursed his lips contemplatively before continuing. "At this moment, down in the dissection rooms, do we, or do we not have the mutilated corpse of Lord Glastonbury?"

"We do indeed, sir," Lestrade replied cautiously.

Collins nodded as if that were information he had already accepted as truth. "I must also inquire, are we questioning his young wife for possible conspiracy to commit murder?"

Lestrade nodded to confirm that as well.

Collins sighed wearily. "You are aware that the Glastonbury's are calling for an apology from this office?"

Lestrade decided to stay mute, so he indicated he had not.

Collins walked over to his desk and settled into his chair. "Do we have a confession, or evidence beyond refute that I can give them to hold them at bay?"

Lestrade realized he could no longer stay carefully silent so he chose his words carefully. "We have very promising leads we are pursuing; I feel it is only a matter of time before the case will be shored up."

Collins frowned at that pronouncement. "So, at this time, all we have are the clues that were given to you at an impromptu consultation by a man who is not even officially a police surgeon, and you felt that was sufficient to question the Lady Glastonbury, and open this office up to scrutiny and possible repercussions?"

Lestrade gritted his teeth; once again, he cursed his inability to think like a diplomat. He and Gregson had made the decision together to call the Lady in, along with her possible paramour, but it would appear that he was going to absorb the blame should matters deteriorate. "Inspector Gregson and I felt it was prudent to question the Lady Glastonbury, concerning her husband's whereabouts, we felt many of her answers as to her own activities warranted further scrutiny. Doctor Watson's findings were an invaluable resource, as such, we have managed to establish a time line for Lord Glastonbury's last days, and as to a motive for his murder, and to the method of said murder."

Collins studied Lestrade, his eyes intense and dismembering. "Tell me about this Doctor Watson. Before I sent you to the Diagones Club in response to that summoning from Mycroft Holmes himself, I was unaware that the man was anything more than an amanuensis for an amateur detective. If we are to place our futures upon this man's musings, I really must know why he is worthy of such faith."

Lestrade felt the strain of this conversation. How could he explain something to Collins that you could only realize upon meeting the man in question? He could detail Watson's service record, which was impressive to anyone's eyes, he could explain the man's training by the world's foremost investigative genius, but if you only saw Sherlock Holmes as an amateur and his methods dubious at best, that would not suffice. He could even mention the man's credentials as a doctor, but that would only justify a small corner of what the man was. Lestrade, before that demonstration two days past, was not even sure of the extent of the doctor's capabilities, Watson was not one to trumpet them, or draw attention. That was part of the reason most persons who read his accounts, saw him as a lesser spectator to Holmes, than the partner he really was.

Collins nodded at Lestrade's sudden silence. "I have talked to all the Inspectors involved, and all have had the same reaction. There does not seem to be a consensus about this man, or about his qualifications. Hopkins essentially told me I have to meet the man to understand why they accept his word so readily."

Lestrade had to nod at that. "I am sorry sir, but he has many qualities that do not translate to the spoken word, or to credentials on a piece of paper. He's a man who has seen things, horrible things that we cannot fathom, has managed to live with them. Beyond that, he has not allowed himself to be embittered because of those thoughts and memories. He has a unique gravity, which engenders easy trust."

The Superintendant sat in thought for a minute. "I regret to inform you, Lestrade that I will be forced to release Lady Glastonbury by the end of the day, and her attendant as well if I do not have so much as a confession."

Lestrade leapt to his feet in outrage. "Sir, we have the site of the murder, we have an eye witness that saw a horse matching Colonel DeBeer's prize stallion and a rider in the streets near that dock, we have the young boy who ran messages from Lord Glastonbury's Hotel room to his wife, and his wife's response. We are close to getting a search warrant for DeBeer's sabre, alleged as the murder weapon; according to the cast taken from the body it has a nick that can identify it. We even have a well-established history of the Lady Glastonbury's dalliances, and her husband's addictions..."

"But do you have that sabre in custody now, or some concrete evidence that links this young woman to the murder of her husband, because she is giving DeBeers an alibi," Collins asked patiently, His tone insistent.

Lestrade leaned on the desk to emphasize his point. "If we let that Lady leave with that man, she will not live to see another sunrise, and he will disappear. She is his only link to this crime, he is a killer anyone can see that from looking at him, and she is not aware of whom she has made her bed with."

Collins closed his eyes, ran a hand across his face ending at his chin. Lestrade sat back down, he felt for Collins, but the man needed to know what was at stake.

"If you can give us a few more days, we will find what we need to convict them both," Lestrade insisted.

Collins shook his head emphatically. "The Glastonbury's are applying too much pressure, she will be released by the end of the day, and she will insist that DeBeers is released as well. She is already complaining that we have upset her and she is feeling faint and wishes to see a doctor."

Lestrade sat back down, deep in thought. "Her doctor in particular or will any doctor suffice?"

Collins gave him a strange look. "She has not specified, I supposed it can be one of our surgeons."

Lestrade smiled at the man. "Sir, I have a request to make, I think it may be an answer to our difficulties."

Collins sighed. "What's one more?"

-

Lestrade was sitting with Lady Glastonbury in an inquiry room. She had a cup of tea in front of her, which one of the secretaries had provided. She sipped it, but winced as though it was dreadful. Lestrade had the same tea, and he liked it well enough. He supposed it was her sensitive palate at work. A Lady who was used to the best that life had to offer was not going to be receptive to anything a lowly constable could provide. Lestrade in his line of work had encountered persons in all areas of social status. Some of noble birth saw their position as a responsibility and were actually altruistic and kind. Others of that standing saw their eminence as some indulgent from the almighty to be as elitist and arrogant as humanly possible.

Lady Glastonbury belonged to the later group.

She was cool as a snowdrift on top of Big Ben and just as distant. She answered all of their questions with a poorly disguised air of disdain. She seemed be under the impression that they had stepped beyond their rights by even talking to her. She was certainly beautiful in a highborn way. Her aristocratic features, carefully maintained, her skin glowing and soft, her dark hair up in complicated braids, her brown eyes lacking any warmth.

"I must once again protest this treatment, you will most likely lose your position over this, and I sincerely doubt you will ever be part of the constabulary anywhere on the isle for this affront," she mentioned conversationally, as if her conclusions were forgone.

Lestrade had heard variations of this threat several times over the course of the last hour. He was trying to be patient, but he was losing faith that the note he had sent to Kensington had the desired effect.

They both looked up as the door opened. In walked Doctor Watson, the look he gave Lestrade was extremely irritated. "I do have a practice to maintain, Lestrade," he intoned as he crossed the room.

"I am aware Doctor, but I would not trust our distinguished guest here to just any mere surgeon."

Watson sighed as he sat his bag down on the table. He glared at Lestrade as he crossed to the Lady Glastonbury.

"I apologize for my appearance, dear Lady, but I have had a trying day, and the summons was most...urgent, precluding my ability to be presentable." Watson removed his hat and gloves, and sat down gently taking her hand in his, pulling out his pocket watch.

"I hear you have been suffering feelings of faintness, I need to take your pulse if I may?" he asked her in a soothing placating tone.

She nodded at him stiffly. He gently grasped her wrist and checked his watch.

Lestrade noticed that the Lady visibly relaxed, Watson's gentleness and genuine concern for her welfare had gotten further past her defences than Lestrade or Gregson had in three hours of interrogation. "It has been a most difficult day for me as well," she informed him archly.

Lestrade leaned back as if he was bored, but he was watching closely. His note to the doctor had the details to what they needed from this woman, and a request for him to try his hand. So far, he only seemed to be there in his capacity as doctor.

He asked her some more questions, checking her eyes and their pupil dilation in the overhead lights. He moved his finger in front of her face, asking her to follow it.

He turned to Lestrade with angry eyes, but his voice was clipped and casual. "This young lady is suffering from low blood sugar. I suggest you get her some scones to go with her tea, I would not, however, suggest you be cheap about it."

Lestrade nodded, left briefly to order a constable to run to a local bakery. Less than a half an hour later, Lady Glastonbury was delicately nibbling a pastry, with a fresh cup of tea the doctor had insisted be made with a couple lumps of sugar. She actually looked friendlier, but that could be from her chat with the doctor, who even Lestrade had to admit was being extremely charming.

"I have a confession to make, m'Lady." Watson stated conversationally, "I am here as a doctor, but they have also implored me to attempt to convince you to confess."

Lestrade shot up in his seat livid, he was sputtering in his anger, but the doctor held a hand up to him, the anger in his hazel eyes telling Lestrade to calm down and remain quiet.

She watched this display with a look of bemusement. "You are most kind to tell me of this deception, Doctor," she informed smugly as she sat her scone down on a napkin.

Watson shook his head emphatically, "No, I am not being kind. Because of my honour, and my inability to lie or coerce, you will most likely walk out that door to your death."

She suddenly looked discomfited. "You believe this too?"

He nodded gravely. "I was a soldier, m'Lady, a Major in service to the Crown; I have known men such as your escort in times of war. It brings out the worst in them; some do not leave that darkness behind once they leave it for home."

"You do not know Ronald." She stated adamantly.

Watson's eyes fixed on hers, Lestrade could tell the intensity from across the room. "I sincerely hope I am wrong, because if I am not, you will likely not live out the week."

With that statement Watson packed up his bag; he picked up his hat and coat and started for the door.

Watson suddenly paused as if he had a thought. "Has DeBeers shown you his necklace?"

She started. "To what are you referring?"

Watson turned to her calmly. "Forgive me for being forward, but I saw the body. Your husband was known to have had a gold front tooth, it was missing. I thought whoever killed him, extracted it to show the person he killed for, the task was complete. It suddenly occurs to me, you do not have the stomach for such a memento. He must have taken it for himself."

She frowned.

Lestrade tried to repress the feeling of excitement. _You have it Doctor, you found the thread that unravels the knot, keep worrying it!_

Watson came back over and sat his things down. He painfully knelt down and took her hands in his. "DeBeers collects trophies, most men of his bent do. I am thinking that he keeps human teeth as a necklace, which was a common practice among certain regiments. They took those teeth as trophies from vanquished enemies. Are you entirely certain you are not just another trophy to this man?"

She was blinking too quickly. He had touched a nerve inside her, happened upon a doubt that she had buried. "He loves me."

Watson's voice was gentle but his tone was angry. "Men, such as him, love only conquest. Your husband was sick, he was killing himself with Opium, and losing his fortune in the parlours, and you could not get him to stop. You felt helpless, DeBeers offered to take care of you; it is only human to want to feel secure."

She was crying now. She looked into his kind eyes, "I had to do something. William did not love me. He drank all the time before, and gambled in the clubs at all hours, then someone introduced him to Mah-jong and I lost him completely..."

Watson nodded encouragingly for her to proceed. "Then you met Ronald DeBeers, and he made you feel safe."

She nodded, the tears really flowing now. Watson pulled out his handkerchief for her. She dabbled at her eyes. "Then William stopped coming home..." Watson nudged gently.

"He sent word through messengers, that he had debts that needed to be paid or they would murder him. I did not want to send money down to that Judas pit, and to those...people!" she stated coldly.

Lestrade did his best to remain invisible; he was silently urging the doctor to the right track. He needed her to say the right words and he needed her to be willing to repeat them later.

Doctor Watson studying her face, he was smiling kindly to sooth her. "You can protect yourself from DeBeers, and you can accept responsibility for your actions, all you have to do is testify against him and make your involvement known. It is your only option now, DeBeers knows you are his only connection with this crime, he will make sure you disappear, you do not want to wind up on his grisly necklace do you?" he inquired in a placating tone.

She nodded tearfully.

Doctor Watson looked up at Lestrade. "Someone needs to come in here and take her statement."

Lestrade scrambled for the door, he exited pulling the door shut behind him to see Bradstreet, Gregson and Hopkins all standing around. They glanced up hopefully. "Hopkins, get your pad," Lestrade blurted. The Inspectors and Constables that had been milling about burst out into spontaneous celebration, while Hopkins rummaged for a pad and pulled out his ever-present pencil.

Lestrade nodded to Gregson, "Well Tobias, get DeBeers up for processing, he's your collar after all, and tell the bastard I said hello."

-

The statement was brief and damning for Colonel Ronald DeBeers. Lestrade was sure the big roughshod man would be swinging from a noose before the month was out.

The Lady Glastonbury would have a different path. She was involved with the conspiracy to commit murder, but her cooperation, and the obvious manipulation that took place would save her from worst of the penalties. She would still be in jail for some time, and her standing was irretrievably lost, but she would be alive.

Doctor Watson sat with her holding her hand throughout the entire statement; she gave him a kiss on the cheek out of gratitude before she was removed to her own cell.

Watson looked particularly grim as he accepted the thanks from the Yarders, and Lestrade walked him out, the doctor was limping from the pain he caused himself by kneeling on the floor.

"What is the matter, Doctor? We have won the day. I should think you would be happy."

Watson spun on Lestrade his moustache quivering in his anger. "That young lady had been in that room complaining of faintness for two hours before you sent for me. I did not come for you."

Lestrade was confused. "But...the brilliant way you handled yourself, that ingenious guess about the necklace of teeth?"

Doctor Watson paused as the hansom he had flagged pulled up. "All I have done is to see to her health, you did not call an interrogator, you called a doctor." He turned to Lestrade the coals of his eyes banked low. "When you call me in the future, you might want to bear in mind that I am not Holmes. My priority will not always be the case at hand." **(3)**

Lestrade, struck dumb by those words, could only watch as doctor embarked and the hansom drove off.

Feeling numb, he turned and entered the Yard. He had not gone far across the receiving area, when he heard, "Chief Inspector Lestrade, are you free?"

He tensed, but gave the Superintendant a nod. He followed the man into the office.

Collins had a bottle of cognac he kept for distinguished visitors; he had poured two small glasses. "I feel this denouement calls for a celebration. This case will make a nice feather in the unit's cap. The Glastonbury's dropped their complaint, and will be far too busy repairing scandal, so no further repercussions from that front..."

Collins trailed off when he saw Lestrade's face. "You do not seem to be sharing in the success Lestrade. Would I be too forward as to ask why?"

Lestrade informed his superior of the Doctor's strange reaction.

Collins settled behind his desk. "I think I am finally getting the full measure of this man."

Lestrade started. "You understand why he acted that way?"

Collins nodded. "You and the other inspectors are not literary men, if you've never read the works of Shakespeare, or Beowulf, the tales of King Arthur and his round; if you had you would know more about the man in question."

Lestrade fought his temper, he did not appreciate it when someone pointed out his educational shortcomings, but this man in front of him was not Holmes. This man was his superior, so he managed to choke out, "Please elaborate."

Collins seemed to be lost in thought. "Your Doctor Watson is a knight of the old order, a chivalrous gentleman, and a throwback to a lost era. I do not wonder that you were unable to explain him to me earlier, I doubt you or your compatriots have met very many men such as this."

Lestrade still felt confused.

Collins noted his befuddled expression. "Let me ask if this sounds familiar. He protects women, children, and the elderly, to the detriment of his own health. His word is immutable, and more unchanging as the North Star, he would rather die than break it. He is affable enough and allows any slight to his person to pass unchallenged, but will declared war on any disparaging remark or action towards a loved one. If he is at your back, you never have a fear from that quarter. He is so honourable he wins his enemy's respect, as well as his friends. I am I painting an accurate portrait?"

Lestrade stared at his superior in open awe. "I thought you did not know the man."

Collins laughed, "I should like to, but alas I was just reciting elements of the chivalric code. If you wish to have dealings with this man further, you might do well to memorize it."

Collins pulled out a leather bound folio out of his desk. "When next you meet the good doctor, be sure to give him his credentials."

Lestrade accepted them cautiously. "I thought he would need training before he received his official appointment."

Collins smiled. "Winning his enemies respect, as well as his friends, remember? The senior police surgeon at Scotland Yard, Doctor Georges St. Cloud, signed off, that he had witnessed the Doctor's abilities first hand and found them sufficient to begin work as a police surgeon immediately."

Lestrade checked them and saw Doctor John Hamish Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard.

_Now all I have to do is get the stubborn bastard to accept them. _He mused.

* * *

**Story Notes:** As I wrote that scene with the Lady Glastonbury, I was amazed at Watson's behavior. To be honest he baffled me. I took extra time to wonder why the man wound up on the Lady's side against the yard, then it hit me, Watson is a doctor first and foremost! He could have just as easily been Major Watson, he earned that right, but he would rather be known for saving of lives than for taking them. How that will come into conflict with the Yard...that remains to be seen. Watson is like an onion, I keep peeling but I keep realizing I'm just beginning!

**(3)** For the angry Watson stare down check out my profile!

**Bart**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Notes:** Short chapter. I will let you decide if it was worth it.

I actually feel wrung out from writing this.

Absolutely no words!

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard**

**Chapter Four**

The Doctor's practice in Kensington was not what Lestrade was expecting.

He spent some time watching the clientele as they came in and out. There were some middle class families, that suited the neighbourhood, but the majority were of the lower class. There was one notable woman who had at least eight children , they were stair step ages with the youngest carried in her arms less than a year, and she was noteworthy because she was obviously pregnant..

Lestrade pursed his lips in disgust as he smoked another cigarette to add to the several littering the ground at his feet. He needed to talk to Doctor Watson, but he knew the conversation was not going to go in predictable channels. Watson was honourable and he would be kind, but if his mind was made up about his work at Scotland Yard, Lestrade had no chance of changing it. Lestrade sighed and leaned against the gas light now lit against the dusk, putting off the confrontation.

The Doctor's visitation hours ended a half an hour ago, but he had one patient who persisted, so Lestrade waited. Finally, the elderly woman was at the door, she talked in low tones with the Doctor as he assisted her down the stairs. He was coatless with his sleeves rolled up; she patted his arm lovingly as he flagged a cab for her. Lestrade had backed into the foggy shadows of an alleyway to watch her departure. Suddenly the cab left, its wake revealed Doctor Watson standing on the stoop, his arms crossed, and he was staring directly at Lestrade.

Lestrade chuckled and mashed his last cigarette out with his toe, crossing to the doctor. Watson, however, did not say a word as he turned and limped back up the stairs into his practice.

He seemed to have not only anticipated Lestrade's arrival, but to have already resigned himself to the inevitable conversation that would shortly take place. He led Lestrade past the entrance to his living quarters through the small, cosy waiting area, into his office.

Lestrade, having never visited the seat of Watson's business before, had to admit it was well suited to the man.

It was tasteful, not expensively so, but it was well appointed and had a military order, but the draperies and other touches showed a feminine hand. Lestrade could see that Mary Watson had been more than a supporter of her husband's endeavours, but a participant as well. The walls had the usual degrees, and certificates to set patients at ease, but there was only one other frame on the panelling. It was a framed note.

Lestrade realized that Doctor Watson was sitting on the edge of his desk, arms crossed casually waiting Lestrade out, as the man studied his surroundings. He knew Lestrade and his curiosity well it would appear. "Is this the actual note?" Lestrade inquired. Watson's face revealed no emotion as he nodded. "It is."

Watson seemed to have no timetable for this encounter; the man was entirely distant, as if he was saying. "This is your time Lestrade, impress me."

Lestrade had no idea how to proceed. This empty equanimity from Watson was setting him on edge. He wanted the man to give him some energy back, to let him know how to approach the matter. Watson's lifeless apathy was as intense as his railing would be.

"Will you let me know what you are thinking? This silence is crawling my nerves." Lestrade demanded. He knew he had given up any advantage he might have had in this battle of wills, but he would have lost anyway. No one could match Watson's will.

Watson sighed. He went over to a small washbasin and began to clean his hands. "What do you want me to think, Lestrade? What do you want me to say? What will get you out of my parlour and away from me?"

Lestrade felt stung by the man's words, but his instinct told him that there was something happening underneath those words. Something that needed to unearthed.

"You tell me, Watson. I'd sincerely like to know what is going on with you," he prodded. He hated to be so abrasive, but that was the only tact left him.

However, he did not anticipate the man's reaction.

"I'm tired, Lestrade. So tired I can barely function. Too tired to sleep, too exhausted to think, and so worn out that I often imagine I am becoming transparent. Wishing I were transparent, so then I could be a ghost, like I already feel I am."

Those words, spoken with the man's back to him, the set of his broad shoulders slumped in weariness. Lestrade was afraid to speak, frightened to even move. This man in front of him was not one for confession; to get this inner truth from him was a sign of a disturbing state of mind.

"I see him, Lestrade, in my dreams; I often feel he is still on this earth somewhere. I keep expecting him to show up in my office, whip off one of those dreadful disguises and ask me for a smoke. At times, I wonder if I am going quite mad. Other days, I wonder if I have been mad for some time and was not aware."

He turned, his hollowed out eyes piercing Lestrade. "Is this the sort of man you wish to work with? A man who might be better off in a dark room dosed with Laudanum?" **(4)**

Lestrade finally understood. He remained silent.

Watson wiped his hands on a towel tossing it into the basin in disgust. "I make no connections, Lestrade, I talk to no one, and I am more at home with a graveyard, with a corpse than I am with the living. The dead ask no inconvenient questions, they make no speculations or inquiries. They never ask how I am.

I cannot accept my weakness, but weak I am, so disgustingly feeble I can barely stomach myself. I help others; I assist in their health restoring them to strength, something I cannot do for myself. I have managed to keep my distance, so others would not know my fragility. I can no longer attend concerts, I weep at Mozart now...at Mozart!" he bellowed his fists came down on the washstand causing the basin to nearly tumble, but the porcelain vessels righted themselves.

His head rested against the mirror behind the basin, as if he could no longer find the strength to hold it erect. "You wished to know my state, now you do, I should appreciate it if you would leave now."

Lestrade knew that a better man would have a speech ready, have ready words to sooth to comfort, to restore, but he had none to share.

Watson was a man of dignity and integrity, but he was a man of pride who had just revealed his suffering in an effort to back Lestrade away. He obviously thought that Lestrade would be appalled and disgusted, but he did not know Lestrade as well as he thought.

Lestrade walked over to the man, he placed the credentials beside him on the washstand. "These belong to you, sir. I should like you to make yourself available for the difficult cases; we will of course bear in mind restraints due to your practice. The paymaster will work out an arrangement, but we will expect you to keep note of your own time."

He started for the door.

"Why are you doing this?" Watson called.

Lestrade turned to the man. "Have you ever wondered why Hopkins was the only officer from the Yard at Mary's service?"

Watson shook his head bewildered.

"We heard about the press and their behaviour towards you even as you grieved. Therefore, we endeavoured to cordon off the block for the service, so you could have your peace. It took most of the duty shift. Hopkins we sent as our representative because he knew Mary better than we, his wife was a friend."

Lestrade paused to let that sink in. "We take care of our own, Watson."

Watson seemed to absorb that information. "We will never speak of this conversation?"

Lestrade gave him a befuddled look. "To which conversation, are you referring?"

Watson chuckled.

Lestrade tipped his hat and left, he hailed a cab when he reached the street. As he headed for his own home, he realised that he felt better about himself than he had in a long time. He actually felt that he had done something right. That was not a feeling common to him.

* * *

**Story Notes:** Doctor John Watson is a strong man but if you add up all he suffered at this point in his life...somethings got to break. Even the strong branch must bend before the wind. I was surprised by his confession, it just started to come out when I was writing. I have rarely had a character this determined to do his own thing. I guess that should not come as a surprise!

**(4)** Check out the Watson angst in my profile!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Notes:** I have had one of the most rewarding writing experiences of my life these last few days. I actually got to meet Doctor John Hamish Watson and spend some time in his presence and I must say, wow is he a neat guy! Understatement that!

One of the reasons I became a writer was moments like this when the story is flowing and you've got to write it down, it's like fishing and a Marlin grabbed the line, or a monster plot-bunny!

The idea of a Sherlock Holmes story in the Holmes world without Holmes, is not a new one, but having John Watson be the crime fighter now that was an interesting thought.

I kept reading all of these WONDERFUL stories about Holmes and Watson, with Watson being viewed from the outside, instead of the narrative voice and I was intrigued to say the least.

The first story that resulted that I wrote was, "The Breaking Strain" and I thought, well I wrote a Holmes story, that's going to be it. Suddenly I was reading "Observations on a Bosewell" and there was this sequence where Watson and Lestrade were involved in an autopsy, and they seemed to have a dialogue about collaborating before. Then I read "Observations on a Yarder" and in that story there was a clear affection between Watson and the entire staff of Scotland Yard that touched me deeply. The thought occurred, what is Watson without Holmes, as a crime fighter in his own right? Would he be average? What would his process be? How would it differ from Holmes, how would it be simular, and how would his extensive knowledge gleaned from travels for the empire, be useful?

I tried to pass the bunny on to someone more canonically competent, KCS, and I mentioned it to the great Holmes author who wrote the amazing "Observations" series, Shedoc, but the bunny would not leave me. I have a full plate with other stories, but sometimes the bunny belongs to you, so you must write!

So I embarked upon this lark, thinking I would send what I had to another writer later, then Doctor Watson did something to capture me. Something random, and unexpected and sentient.

He laughed in the middle of a serious scene.

In chapter one Lestrade was doing his best to convince the man that he could be an asset to Scotland Yard, and he ran up against that old Watson stubborn streak, he got frustrated and exasperated. I had this entire sequence planned for him to convince Watson, then the man laughed, and gave in without another word.

WHAT?

Since then I have not been in full control of the man, he has stubbornly decided his own fate, Lestrade has suddenly taken on a life of his own as well...I don't know when the monkeys took over the zoo but I have had a ball!

I hope you have as well.

This chapter has a bit of the Yard gang shenanigans and gives an idea at how Watson fits in.

Holmes always kept himself aloof and superior but Watson is able to become a geniune member of the group, a true co-worker.

I may visit this series again.

I might not have a choice!

**WARNING! There are parts that can be a bit gruesome! **

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard**

**Chapter Five**

"S'not fit for neither men nor beast tonight, eh guv?" said the bobby as Lestrade disembarked at the foggy street corner just outside of White Chapel, in the early hours of Tuesday morning.

It took only a glance and a groan to recognize the blond hair and earnest face of PC Tommy Parlier, and his dark haired but equally eager shadow, PC Bobby Darling.

Tommy and Bobby where notorious night shifters, while most officers strove to get off the nocturnal walk as soon as they could move up, these two consistently turned down any move to daylight. There had been speculation that it had to do with a coffee addiction. Their mind numbing, rapid-fire ways of talking would seem to bear that out.

"I says, call Chief Inspector Lestrade, Bobby, he'll sort it.

"Aye, that he did, and here you are."

"Right as rain, well it was raining, still nasty though."

"Not supposed to clear up soon, so I hear."

"This is London, it never clears, where have you bean Bobby?"

"Right here, Tommy, walking tha beat to your left, I am."

"Righto, sorry chap."

"All's forgiven."

Lestrade tried to wrap his tired brain around the conversation. It was too early to deal with these two...surely. He sighed deeply, he had to ask, since they were the first officers on the scene, but he was not going to enjoy this. "So, why am I here exactly?"

"Well, we was walking tha beat, and we heard this commotion."

"Some chap was making a lot of noise he was."

"Ran over some bloke with his cart, he was having hysterics."

"Wouldn't you if you ran over some bloke?"

"Of course not, Bobby, but we're not talking about me are we?"

"Right you are."

"Well we goes to see what's tha hubbub about?"

"There's this young bloke out in the middle of the street, covered in mud, he was."

"Dressed, in all things, his Sunday best, wasn't he Bobby."

"Right you are Tommy. He just crawled out into the middle of the street, and along came a four wheel, ran him right over."

"Hence, the hysterics."

Lestrade shook the cobwebs out of his brain, felt a headache coming on. _I cannot believe I am about to do this. _"So why am I here, why not call the shift Inspector?"

"Well, we were told if we come across something odd, we're supposed to call Chief Inspector Lestrade, and Doctor Watson at all hours, so that's what we did."

"And they don't come odder than this one, guv!"

"We thought he was just drunk, so's we smelt him to see if there were spirits involved."

"His lips were blue, they were, and he smelt like, what would you say Bobby?"

"Death. He smelt like death."

Lestrade, curiosity was starting to rouse from its slumber. "Where is the hysterical cart man, I don't see him anywhere?"

"Doctor Watson sent him off, gave him a talking to. Calmed him right down he did."

"Didn't take long, the man just bucked up and was alright after a minute."

"Doc Watson sorted him, told him to come to the Yard later for a statement.

"Hopkins signed off on it."

"That Doctor is class, isn't he Bobby."

"Checked my hand while he was waiting, gave me a talking to 'bout keeping it clean."

"He did get a bit nutter about our coffee drinking."

"Yeah, said one pot each was not cutting back, like he told to us last time."

"It's not like we're hitting the bars, right Tommy?"

"Nothing wrong with a bit of coffee, Bobby."

Lestrade had his fill of the two, so he sent them to cordon off the street. He turned to see that Doctor Watson was examining the body; Police Surgeon Wilkins was standing nearby looking pale. The cadaver was twisted up a bit from the cart wheels, he was sprawled in the middle of the cobblestone street. Watson was talking to the dead man in low tones as he worked, Lestrade knew enough about Watson's technique to know humanizing the body helped him think.

Hopkins, who had been the Shift Inspector, was standing nearby taking notes; he looked up to see Lestrade and ambled over. He saw Lestrade was rubbing his temples wearily. "You were talking to Tommy, and Bobby?" Hopkins inquired, far too cheerfully for the early hour.

Lestrade nodded. "We need to put those boys on a coffee ration."

Hopkins smirked. "Good luck with that, they'd kill their own for a pot o' the stuff."

"What do we have so far?"

Hopkins traced his notes with his pencil as he read them off. "We have a young man, approximately twenty-two who was run over by a four wheel driven by one Hans Klutz. Doctor Watson believes he was dead before the cart found him, however. He has already diagnosed hypoxia as a contributing factor." Lestrade rolled his eyes. Hopkins had taken to Watson as he had taken to Holmes before him; the young man now read medical books and treatise on forensics, which made talking to him a chore. "Hypoxia, means?"

Hopkins glanced up, surprised. "Lack of oxygen, sir, indicated by the blue lips, the man was recently smothered."

Lestrade waved impatiently for the younger man to continue.

Hopkins shrugged. "That is all we have for now. Weak-stomach Wilkins is the Surgeon on call, he's "assisting" but we are placing bets how long it takes for him to lose last night's bread."

Lestrade looked over at the younger surgeon just behind Watson, who was getting a little greenish tint, he flipped Hopkins a pence. "Put me down for ten minutes."

Hopkins grinned, flipped his pad over a few pages and wrote the entry down. He tipped his cap and followed Lestrade over to the Doctor. He was kneeling beside the body with a pained look on his face, but was ignoring the discomfort, engrossed in the examination. He seemed oblivious to Lestrade's arrival.

"Good morning, Lestrade, you're looking tired, not sleeping well?"

_Maybe not so oblivious,_ Lestrade thought with irritation.

Lestrade made sure he was glowering, as Watson looked up with a crooked grin apparent under his moustache. "Have a nice talk with the bobbys?" he remarked, entirely too chipper for the hour.

Lestrade resisted an urge to snarl. "Tell me about your friend, or are you acquainted enough yet?"

Watson nodded. "We have been having a chat. He has quite a story to tell, if you'd like to hear it."

Lestrade squatted down beside the doctor. "Proceed."

Watson pointed to the hands. "Our young friend here was a gardener from the tool marks on his palms, and the permanent soil under his nails and pads of his fingers. He was stricken in some manner a couple of days previous, so much that someone declared him dead."

Lestrade was interested now. "How did you determine that?"

Watson pointed up the street a few paces, there were drops of mud nearly washed away by the retreating rain drainage, and it was leading off through some wrought iron gates.

Lestrade hissed under his breath. "That is a cemetery."

Watson nodded his face somber. "He has splinters of wood under his nails, the ones that were not torn off and badly bruised knuckles. The splinters are cheap pine covered by expensive lacquer. He must have awoken, clawed his way through the cheap coffin and climbed out of his own grave and out into the road before collapsing and dying on the spot. He was deceased and cooling before the cart found him, his body was too limp when the wheels rolled him under, a live body would have tensed and caused more breakage in the extremities.

Lestrade was furious. He called to some milling PCs. "Robinson, you and Hawkins go into that cemetery; there should be a disturbed grave. Get the name off of the tombstone, be quick about it."

Lestrade glanced up to see Wilkins was really getting green. He had to smile a little to himself. It was all part of police life, you made stupid bets, and played practical jokes at crime scenes, and anything to escape the horror.

"So someone declared this young man dead, but how did they not know?"

Watson sighed. "He must have had a stroke, or some reaction, either way the embalming process should have given it away. This young man was not prepared for burial properly. The coffin is a fake, maybe the entire process was as well."

Lestrade had a cold chill. "Could this be the Barrow Brothers, they were in jail for five years for defrauding with that funeral parlour, that would be seven years ago?"

Watson turned to Hopkins. "If you don't mind Inspector, run along to 221 Baker Street, there is a file on the Barrow case; it should be filed under B on the shelf over his desk, if Holmes had not moved it. Tell Mrs. Hudson that I asked you to retrieve it, if she is adamant, inform her that I will be around for tea today to discuss it." He paused. "Actually, tell her I will be around to tea regardless."

Hopkins nodded, replaced his pencil over his ear, and strode off eagerly.

Lestrade watched him go. "Hopkins has been growing a moustache, and has taken a sudden liking to forensics and medical terms."

Watson flashed that lopsided grin. "Has he now? At least he has not grown rat-like features and taken to minding everyone's business but his own."

Lestrade grimaced. "Touché', nice to see your pawky humour is returning as well."

Watson ignored the barb as he turned back to the cadaver. "This young man is simply remarkable. He awoke in a living nightmare, suffocating in darkness, but fought his way into the air. Someone that strong would not have died easily, but what killed him I wonder?"

His gentle hands traced the twisted body; he suddenly stopped at the heel of the man's shoes. "Hold on, we have a drag mark. Here on the heel, he was dragging this leg." His hands moved over to his bag, he pulled out some scissors; he carefully, with surgical precision cut the pants leg away from the corpses' lower calf.

He pulled it loose. Wilkins began to gag at the sight; Lestrade's stomach gave a lurch as well. Watson seemed prepared; he reached inside his bag and pulled out a vial offering it to the younger man. "Here you go Wilkins, drink this bicarbonate, it will help. Take deep breaths and walk away, there's a lad."

Wilkins took the vial and walked a short distance away. Lestrade checked his watch, ten minutes just passed. He grumbled. He suddenly got suspicious. "You had that bicarbonate handy." Watson gave him a innocent smile, that somehow managed to appear sly. "I am also down in Hopkins' pad...for Wilkins not vomiting at all."

Lestrade snorted appreciatively before turning back to the body. The leg looked ghastly, there seemed to be green under the skin. "This is what killed the lad," Watson concluded. "He had gangrene in this leg, it set in earnest while he was comatose. His heart began to pump blood trying to generate oxygen and his fear forced it through the veins, you can see from the red streaks. He was poisoned by his own blood."

Lestrade shook his head. "So his fight for survival killed him?"

Watson shook his head. "I am afraid not, he was already a dead man." He pointed to the centre of green flesh. There were two tiny little marks. "I think we know why he appeared dead. A snake bit him. One that is not indigenous to the Isle. This is nerve toxin damage, very few snakes in the world could with one bite cause a gentleman to appear dead, I ran across a few breeds in the Orient, but none belong in England. I think we have a serious cover up here."

Lestrade's bloodhound instinct sensed a hunt was in the making. "So where do we start?"

Watson thought for a minute. "We will know this lad's name shortly; I am betting he worked for the zoological society, or a private concern. Either way, there are laws against having snakes this dangerous, someone is flaunting those laws, and this young man paid the price for it."

Lestrade ticked off the points in his head. "So we have a possible funeral parlour scam to uncover, and a rogue zoo keeper to look for?"

Watson struggled to his feet, the pain etched in his face showing the affect the weather was having on his war injuries. Lestrade feigned ignorance. "The person or persons concerning the snake would most likely be a herpetologist of some type, someone with very specific tastes for the exotic, but no restraints for their fellow man. They could indeed be dangerous."

Lestrade nodded, "Shall we move the body to the Yard for autopsy? I believe Wilkins can handle it from here." Watson nodded as he watched PCs Robinson and Hawkins approached. "What was the dear boy's name?" He asked with an odd intensity. Robinson and Hawkins both looked shaken, it was not an easy thing to contemplate someone buried alive. "The tombstone said Robert Jenkins, sir."

The doctor, in spite of the pain, bent down and gently closed the young man's eyes. "A pleasure to meet you Robert, I wish it were under better circumstances, you can rest now, we'll find who did you this disservice, there's a lad." He leaned on his cane and slowly stood back up. "If you would not mind me slowing you down, dear Lestrade, I should like to be in on the hunt." **(5)**

Lestrade nodded. He looked at the man across from him; he felt some satisfaction that Watson was filling back out somewhat, due to a conspiracy of Yarder housewives in part, but it was the life spark he saw back in the man's eyes that was most encouraging.

"I would welcome your help, indeed Doctor, shall we discuss it over breakfast?"

Watson nodded, "Lead the way."

* * *

The club was a silent opulant tomb, a repository for the old guard of the empire. The furnishings were gloriously appointed and expensively maintained, the massive trophies to past hunts silent and watching.

The nervous functionary walked into the cigar smoke haze of the study and made his way to the round table were the gentlemen played their games of chance with strategy honed by years at their craft.

Colonel Moran acted ambivilant to the room, but his yellow eyes narrowed dangerously as he saw the man approach. The news the gentleman carried was already known to him, but he tested his network of informant's periodically to make sure they were functioning.

"Yes?" he growled.

The man would have dropped to the ground prostrate if they were on foriegn soil, but alas this was England so all the man could do in polite society is bow his head in obescience.

"Colonel Ronald DeBeers was hanged this morning, sir. The case was overwhelmingly against him."

Moran gave the man an imperious look. "This is supposed to concern me?"

The man almost choked in his terror. "I felt you needed to know."

Moran waved for him to leave and watched him scurry off.

One of his compatriots folded his hand, leaned back to sip his cognac. "So we've lost control of the Glastonbury estate."

Moran nodded. "DeBeers was sloppy, he deserved his fate, I forsee no repercussions that need to be made."

The man nodded. "This Doctor Watson, if our sources are accurate, he may be a threat."

Moran waved him off. "He is my stalking horse, once I am ready for Sherlock Holmes, he will bait my trap."

The other man thought about that for a moment. "If he does become a threat?"

Moran snorted. "We will do what we have always done."

* * *

**Story Notes:** Thankyou all for your kind words and encouragement!

**(5)** Watson ready to go! Check out the picture in my profile.

**Bart**


End file.
